


Better If It's Worse

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Belly Kink, Childbirth, Cramps, Drugged Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description, Humiliation, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Mpreg, Non-Consensual, OhSamPrompt, Orgasm Denial, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Protective Dean Winchester, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Scat, Selkies, Sick Sam Winchester, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Urination, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is the victim of their latest hunt in Shithole, Maine. Now they're in a motel in Who-Knows-Where, Ohio dealing with the unnatural fallout...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better If It's Worse

**Author's Note:**

> _**A/N:**_ Originally an [anonymous prompt](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/81661.html?thread=567037) at the **ohsam** 's [Sam-Centric Hurt/Comfort Fic Challenge](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/81166.html) which went thusly: _Sam has been made pregnant by some nasty supernatural mechanism (bonus points if Dean is somehow the father), but is incredibly traumatized and in complete denial of the pregnancy. The unnatural condition really takes a toll on Sam's body, but he refuses to acknowledge that anything is wrong and freaks out when Dean tries to talk about it. All Dean can do is watch his brother grow bigger and heavier every day, and try to take care of him as subtly as possible. Finally, Dean realizes that Sam's been having intermittent contractions for days, and the birth is imminent. Sam is in agony but still trying to pretend he just needs a rest. Dean has to talk him through the whole process, including convincing Sam to push when he's trying his damnedest not to. Sam/Dean, preslash or slashy gen are all great!_. I hope I came somewhere in the ballpark of filling this even though it is completely gen and I took liberties with the prompt.
> 
> A million thanks to **reapertownusa** for putting up with me wailing about this via email for two months, hand-holding me through my first kink fic and for beta'ing this! And much thanks and love to the very lovely **soncnica** who also did hand-holding and much encouragement.
> 
> Please make note of the tags for warnings.
> 
>  _ **Disclaimer:**_ Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. Also, the title comes from the song of the same name which belongs to ZOX and its respective parties.

The harbor seal slips quietly out of the water, dragging itself onto the large, flat, rough plateau, flippers slapping noisily, fat-laden belly scraping against the rocks. It stops, tucks itself into a protected hollow and looks around, round eyes wide and shining. It is alone.

Stars glimmer overhead as the seal lowers its head, arching its shoulders higher. Suddenly its skin perforates along its spine and gapes wide open. Smooth, milk-white shoulders slip free, followed by a head and arms and a torso. Carefully rolling the speckled gray-tan skin down over her hips, the length of her legs, like a pair of nylons, the Selkie throws her head back and smiles up at the black sky as her ankles, feet, and, finally, toes, are free. Wriggling them, she stands slowly, relishing the chill of the night on her naked skin, hands exploring her curves, lingering at her small, firm breasts, nipples puckering and hardening in the chilly dampness. Shaking out her long, dark hair, she conceals her nakedness, and splashes across the rocky beach, the tiny rolled-up ball of sealskin bunched tightly in her hand.

**::: ::: :::**

“So what brings you here, loner?” Her voice is low, slightly slurred.

The tall, broad-shouldered young man, barely into his twenties, swivels on the bar stool and meets her gaze. His eyes are hazel, lighter than she expected, half-hidden by shaggy bangs that make him look even younger than she initially suspected. Even though the top of her head doesn’t even clear his shoulder, and she knows she’s not a size-zero, she’s nonetheless caught his attention. She can feel his eyes tracking over her tiny, curvy figure, lingering at her small, full breasts that barely peek over the top of her lace camisole. She grins at him easily, confident that the deep berry color compliments her fair, flawless skin. The way her dark-washed skintight jeans hug her slim, rounded hips and butt, accentuating them without drawing undue attention, tapering into knee-high brown boots.

“And you are?” He gives her a small smile.

She reaches up, runs her hand through wild brown curls, shaking them out, feeling them brush her thighs at their longest point. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” She smiles broadly at him and swings up onto the vacant barstool besides him. “I’ve been here every night for the past month and this is the first time I’ve seen you. You’re different. Most guys who come in here — they aren’t interested in reading the _Bangor Daily News_. They come in here, order their Coors, play some pool, cry about their girls leaving them and their dogs being run over by cars. They aren’t interested in…” she leans forward, curling her shoulder towards him seductively, and she knows he can smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo, the mint of her toothpaste, feel her breath brushing his jaw, “what’s… right… in… front… of… their… noses…” She pulls back, grins. “But you aren’t like them. You’re different,” she repeats.

“Yeah?”

“You’re quieter. Sad.”

She twists, reclines, bracing her elbows on the glossy bar. She flicks her gaze downwards, sees the Sharpie-circled article in the lower right-hand corner. “God, that was terrible…” she says, tapping a finger at the article. “You’d have never thought he’d vanish like that.”

“You were here the night…?” He stops himself as soon as the question begins to slip out but it’s too late — she knows she has his interest and that from here out it’ll be like taking candy from a baby. “You…”

“I didn’t know him. Not well. Wasn’t my type — I’m not into lobstermen…” She glances at him critically. “I’m more into lumberjacks.” A smile, wink. “But yeah… it was a bad night. He was here, playing pool.” She pauses, points over to the pool table in a well-lit corner, besides the jukebox. There’s a new face among the regulars tonight and she narrows her eyes in suspicion. It’s almost too good to be true — she’s been lurking around here since before Labor Day and now, three weeks into September, there’s only the tiny handful of diehard regulars left, with no trace or hope of fresh blood… until tonight. And tonight there’s two in one shot, which just rubs her all wrong.

She surveys the other newcomer and decides he’s good looking in his own right — shorter and slimmer than her target, but he’s got eyes she’d love to pass onto her offspring. Right now, though, size is more important and the huge, brooding guy at the bar would be sturdy enough to withstand the ordeal. She files the pool shark away in the back of her head as a potential breeder if the ginormitron doesn’t work out. The hustler accepts a wad of cash, sets it beside him, and takes a swig of his beer, pool cue never leaving his grip.

“But anyways, he was really upset,” she resumes, snapping the boy-man’s attention back to her. She shrugs. “Don’t know why. He seemed to be in a bad way. Usually he stayed for a good three hours, until almost nine at night, but that night he slipped out early. I followed him to the beach and then he just… disappeared.”

“Could he — Could he have, I dunno, made a turn off somewhere you didn’t notice? Or something like that.”

She shakes her head. “I followed him to the beach…” She places her hand on his forearm, feels the strong, corded muscles beneath the skin. “I _followed_ him.”

“Maybe he fell into the ocean?”

She worries at the loose skin of her lower lip. “Maybe. That’s what the cops think. I don’t know, though. There’s something wrong about the whole thing. Why are you so interested, anyways?” She turns down the corners of her mouth.

He reaches into his back pocket, flips open his wallet, reveals a glossy photo ID. “I’m a private investigator.”

“Huh.” Her frown deepens. “Do you want to see where he disappeared? I can take you there…”

And she doesn’t miss the bright flash of inquisitiveness, of desire in his eyes.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

**::: ::: :::**

It’s almost disappointingly too easy to lure the overgrown boy-man to the beach. She can tell he’s far younger than most of her catches, but he more than makes up for it in his size and bulk.

She slides her hand into his much larger paw as she leads him down the road, veering off onto a worn footpath, winding through the stand of tall pines with the ease of familiarity. Asphalt gives way to gravel, which gives way to dirt before returning to gravel. She stops just as the tree line ends and path opens suddenly onto a narrow stretch of rocky shore. Bending over, she unzips her boots and steps out of them. Tugging off her socks, she curls her toes on the rocks.

“Careful,” she warns the hulking kid besides her. “It’s slippery…”

She closes her entire hand around three of his fingers and tugs him further down the beach, stepping gracefully on the flat plateaus of still-warm igneous rocks. The rocks eventually become granite, blocks thrust high off the ground, shining silver in the moonlight.

Stopping at one of them, a waist high table, she turns to the man-child. “So, loner,” she slurs, slim fingers undoing the button and zipper of her jeans and tugging them down from her hips slightly. “You wanted to see where he disappeared? Well, you got it.” She steps closer, and even though the top of her head barely skims his biceps, she reaches up, curls her hands around the collar of his striped overshirt.

He tenses and she senses his fear, his apprehension, and she knows that he wouldn’t dare to use his brute strength against her. He was raised right, which is actually kind of a shame. She likes it when they go down kicking and fighting.

 _Oh, well. It’ll still be fun_.

She sends out soft, numbing tentacles of thought into him, slowing his breathing slightly, relaxing him, making him docile.

 _The jellyfishes were good for something_.

He doesn’t protest, doesn’t argue, as she slides off his overshirt, fingers skimming his broad shoulders down to his navel. She presses her palm against it, feels the flat, strong muscles through thin, worn cotton, and smiles as she catches the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it upright, revealing a smooth, flat stomach. He takes it from her and tugs it the rest of the way off, slipping it over his head and meets her gaze, breath coming in shallow, hard pants.

“Please,” he begs softly as she eases him gently backwards until he’s sitting on the granite shelf and clambers up to straddle his lap. She slowly, sensually peels off her camisole and bra, alabaster breasts translucent and shimmering in the moonlight. He can't take his eyes off them.

She places her hands on his shoulders, pushes gently until he’s lying down, skims her hands along his arms, relishing the coiled, bunched strength there. She catches his pliant wrists in her tiny hands and manipulates his arms so they’re above his head and secures them with thin, fragile strands of seaweed, and tugs back the soporific slightly. After all, there’s no pleasure if her prey can’t feel.

**::: ::: :::**

She’s on top of him, naked as Eve, long-limbed and lithe. He struggles against his bonds, arms hyperextended over his head, hands numb, the tight ropes of seaweed cutting deep into his wrists. His legs are splayed wide, wider than he thought was even possible. Everything burns with the dull fire of straining muscles, shoulders battling with hips, groin with knees, elbows, for attention.

She pushes down on his raised, bent knee, forcing him to stretch beyond his limits. A whimper escapes him as her salt-damp, slick skin rubs against his.

He refuses to make eye contact with her, refuses to acknowledge her as she slithers against him, skin to skin. Refuses to admit that she’s stretched along his length, her tongue teasing his clavicle. She trails the tip of her tongue lower until it reaches his nipple. She toys with the areola, her tongue arousing the sensitive tissue, the bud hardening and puckering. Her mouth closes around his nipple, sucks hard.

He must’ve let out some kind of sound because she releases him and looks up, sliding lower until her chin is resting on his solar plexus, she grins, mouth lusty, lips red, puffy, and full. She reaches down with her hand, her fingers long and slim, pianist strong, past his cock, scrotum, and fondles his anus.

“Relax. It’s okay,” she says, her breath husky in the air. “It won’t hurt if you relax.” She’s still murmuring breathlessly as she plunges one fingertip into the tight opening.

He screams, back arching at the intrusion. He knows it’s probably not much, that her finger is probably barely inserted past the tip, but it burns and her fingernail scrapes against his tender skin.

He feels her push her finger deeper inside him, past the knuckle. He feels the muscle clench hard around her bones in protest as she teases his rectum with a second finger.

His vision shorts out in a blaze of neon as she shoves the second digit in without warning, without enough preparation, into the too-tight, already-full opening, forcing it past his abused ring. A scream dies in Sam’s throat. And it’s all he can do to not whimper, to not squirm, to not give her any sense of satisfaction that she’s causing him pain. But he also knows it’s too late.

He tenses again at her slow probe.

“Relax,” she says again, sliding both fingers further inside him, scissoring slightly, stretching him, until her palm is flush against his opening.

He tries to buck marginally, to dislodge and expel the uncomfortable burn. “Shhh. It’s okay.” He hears her voice come from somewhere around his nether regions. There’s a light pressure on his hip and instantly he stills. It stings and he can feel her heated palm, hot against his sensitive skin, but he’s pinned in place.

He feels her wriggle her fingers, adding a third, fingertips seeking and finding his prostate. She presses hard against it. He squirms, attempting to counteract the increased pressure on his bladder, suddenly aware of just how full it is. She slides her palm from his hip to his abdomen, stopping just beneath his bellybutton. He tightens his muscles, but her hand follows, rubbing in a slow, soothing, circular motion, making him instinctively relax beneath her caresses, despite his attempts to remain rigid. He feels her hand skim lower, settle on his pelvis, press hard and he feels his bladder clench.

Without warning, her fingers jam hard into his prostate, making him cry out with a sharp, surprised gasp, and he feels his bladder release, hot urine pouring out of him.

He’s barely aware of the tears streaming down his face, the rapidly cooling wetness on his inner thighs. He whimpers as she slips out her fingers, wipes them on his abdomen, fluid trickling from his rectum. Pushing herself off his legs, hands on the cold stone on either side of his hips, she crawls back up his length.

“There,” she breathes. “Now you’re ready.”

And he feels something long and thin and slick slide up his leaking opening. It’s slim, narrower than any of her fingers, but it’s cold and slimy and makes his opening spasm painfully. There’s a slight tickle as it toys with his prostate. He feels his cock harden, but she is careful not to look at his growing erection, careful to keep her hands firmly planted on the cold, rough rock, inches from granting him relief.

The pressure and need for release builds as the tip of her tentacle probes and withdraws, teasing him. He has no clear sense of how long it lasts, aware only of the intensity of his need, the all-consuming craving for relief. It feels like hours, but, in all probability, is a few minutes, before there’s a gentle thrust, once, before slipping out completely. He’s shaking and sweating with the rawness of the denial, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps that make the muscles along his ribs ache.

Suddenly she jerks, glancing over her shoulder and Sam can sense her fear, her anxiety, the shift in her power. He feels freer somehow, as though he has more control over his faculties. She’s off him in a flash of slippery, silvery movement, naked body catching moonlight, shining slickly. There’s a sizzle, the sick, familiar smell of flesh burning, and the hollow thud of a knife finding its target and the squelch as it’s withdrawn.

Then there’s a familiar face hovering above him.

“Dean,” Sam croaks out, his voice cracks, raw and unused, as his big brother slices easily through the seaweed binding him. “It’s awesome to see you, man.”

Dean doesn’t say a word as he sets down his machete in easy reach and wraps his hands around Sam’s triceps, easing his brother slowly upright. Sam doesn’t miss how the knife is coated with dark blood or the black spatter on his brother’s light gray t-shirt.

Suddenly, he gasps as pain flares, buttocks and pelvis screaming at the pressure of bearing his weight, clutching furiously at Dean’s biceps, hard enough to bruise. Dean squeezes back and the sharp pain of blunt fingernails digging into muscle helps him focus.

“Hurts…” he hears himself whine as he cants his hips forward, trying to ease the discomfort. His groin sends a bolt of agony to his brain at the pinch, making him cry out. He feels hot tears spilling down his cheeks, unable to control them. “Fuck, Dean. It hurts so bad…” he pants breathlessly.

“C’mon.” He feels Dean’s strong hands drag him forward and he scoots with the tug, shoulders and arms aching. Suddenly the pain eases off. His ass still throbs from the abuse, but it’s manageable. He tilts towards his brother, feels cold stone under his toes, and his forehead collides with Dean’s warm, solid chest.

“Jesus,” he hears Dean curse but he’s too relieved, too exhausted to move. Then Dean’s rumble comes again, “Better?”

Sam can only nod against Dean’s shoulder, still breathing shallowly, eyes squeezed tight. Finally, when he can open his eyes, he sees he’s sitting on the edge of the stone table, legs still spread, as wide as a whore’s, cock erect and throbbing. His engorged, inflamed scrotum dangling for the world to see. He colors with embarrassment, ducking his head, fresh tears spilling as he cups his hand around it, not daring to touch the pulsating organ, but wanting relief, wanting privacy.

**::: ::: :::**

Dean doesn’t look, still gripping his brother’s upper arms, holding him vertical, as he hears Sam whimper, fucking _sobs_ , as he closes his hand around his swollen, rigid erection. He swallows as he feels his own dick prickle in sympathy.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Sam grates out as he shudders, hands chafing over the overheated, overstimulated skin.

And then there’s the steady rhythm of arms, hands, pumping.

There are moans when he doesn’t come immediately, his breath audibly quickening with distress.

They lose time.

Dean’s only aware of Sam’s biceps and triceps bunching and unclenching in tune to his hands and wrists. Desperate sounds of pain and need filling the air. There’s the sharp tang of sweat and fear mingling with the salty spray of the sea and, underneath it all, unmistakably, the scent of synthetic strawberries. And Sam doesn’t stop shaking, doesn’t stop the near-sobs.

Finally, after what feels like eternity, Sam sags up against him again, shivering and sweating, quivering all over like an overtaxed racehorse.

“You better?” Dean asks quietly, looking down at his brother.

Sam’s drenched, trembling, staring at his glistening palms, fingers sticky and slick with fluids and come, his dick mercifully limp, and he tentatively nods.

“Don’t worry about it.” Dean frees one hand, reaches around into one of the inside pockets of his coat and pulls out a black bandanna. “I got it covered. Some things never change. You’re all snotty and you don’t have a friggin’ tissue.” He presses the bandana into Sam’s hands. “Clean up. You’re good.”

There’s a long silence, broken only by the surf and the quiet rasp of the rough fabric as Sam mops his hands, his lower regions.

“You ready? You think you can get to the Impala?”

Sam nods, lets out a sharp, pained noise as Dean wraps his hands around him and heaves him without warning to his feet.

“Gah…” he moans, taking a shuffling step away from the rock ledge, legs trembling badly, listing forward, an arm draped loosely across his abdomen, almost as though to protect it, his center of balance worth shit.

“It’s okay. I gotcha,” Dean murmurs, pressing up against Sam’s side, easing one of Sam’s arms around his neck, wrapping an arm around Sam’s hips for support. Sam is naked, twitching all over, and Dean’s not sure how much of it is chill or shock.

They’ve barely taken one step when Sam groans, curls around his stomach. “Stop…” He gasps out, pulling his arm tighter across his midsection. “Please. Gotta — Something’s wrong.” He exhales slowly, guardedly. “It feels full. Really, really full.”

“Do you need to puke? Or y’know… go…?” Dean asks awkwardly.

“No. No. It’s not like that. I just feel so full,” Sam shifts his arm, hunches on himself. “Like I ate too much.” His palm presses experimentally against flat muscles and he visibly winces.

“Alright. You think you can move? I can’t drive the Impala any closer, man.”

Sam nods and in the moonlight, he’s gray-looking, perspiring.

**::: ::: :::**

Finally, they reach the Impala in the deserted parking lot of the skeevy bar, Dean bearing almost all of Sam’s weight, his brother hobbling, stumbling weakly, still supporting his middle, trying to brace his center of balance.

He reaches out with his free hand, opens the rear passenger door. “Sit,” he commands softly, lowering Sam onto the edge of the leather seat, settling him half-in and half-out of the car, turning on the overhead light. Reaching into the footwell, he plucks a half-empty water bottle and unscrews the cap before handing it to Sam. “Drink slow.”

Sam nods and tilts the bottle slightly, swallows a couple times, before lowering it into his lap. Satisfied that Sam’s okay enough for the moment, Dean goes around to the back of the car and pops open the trunk. Dragging Sam’s duffel towards him, he unzips it and grabs the first pair of boxers and t-shirt he finds. A quick rummage turns up a pair of sweatpants. Going back to his brother, he sees Sam’s listed sideways, head resting on top of the bench seat, eyes shut, breathing unevenly, bangs sticking sweatily to his temples.

Crouching before him, Dean reaches out, shakes his knee.

The effect is instantaneous.

Sam’s eyes snap open and he lunges forward, out of the car, hands halfway wrapped around Dean’s throat before Dean grabs his wrists, pulling them away, stupidly grateful Sam’s reflexes are worth shit and his brother’s weak as a kitten.

“It’s me,” Dean tells him, not releasing his wrists, “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. She’s wasted. It’s over. It’s okay. I gotcha,” he babbles soothingly, easing Sam back onto the seat. “I’ve got some of your clothes. Figured you’d want them.”

Sam’s eyes are glassy, unfocused in the yellowish light, but he nods.

“Here,” Dean says, handing him his boxers. When Sam doesn’t make a move, Dean slips them over his brother’s feet and tugs them up. “C’mon, hands on my shoulders… there. D’you think you could lift your ass a bit? Awesome.” He picks up the sweatpants, repeats the motions before sliding the shirt over his brother’s head. By then, Sam’s cognizant enough to thread his arms through the short sleeves.

He licks his lips and glances down at the empty water bottle by his foot on the cracked asphalt. Sam’s feet are bare; raw, swollen, cracked open and oozing sluggishly from a half-dozen tiny cuts and scrapes.

“It’ll be better to leave that out in the open to dry,” Dean comments. “Tomorrow we’ll clean it out with alcohol. Put triple antibiotic cream on it. But right now I wouldn’t cover any of that.” He glances up, meets Sam’s dazed stare. “How’re you feeling?”

Sam blinks. “Cold.” He pauses. “Tired,” he adds as an afterthought.

“I’ll bet. Want some Percocet? We’ve got some in the kit from when Dad sprained his ankle.” He doesn’t wait for Sam’s response as he goes back to the trunk and digs out the medication. He palms three white pills into Sam’s hand and watches his brother chase them down with a fresh bottle of water.

Sam shifts in his seat, moans softly.

“Lay down,” Dean orders. “You’ll feel better.” And he doesn’t know if he should feel terrified or relieved when Sam obeys without a murmur, curling up on his side, drawing up his legs with a grimace, one knee higher than the other to avoid putting additional pressure on his groin.

“Cold,” Sam whispers, eyes already half-masting.

Dean doesn’t say anything as he retrieves the ancient, olive-green army blanket from the trunk and smoothes it over his sibling, tucking their laundry duffel under Sam’s head as a pillow.

Then, sliding behind the wheel, he glances at Sam, still pale, still trembling, in the rearview mirror. His eyes are bruised-looking and he’s huddled up in the blanket like some kind of burrito. “What d’you say we leave Shithole, Maine?” he asks rhetorically, flipping on the heat and cranking it up to full blast before peeling out of the sandy lot.

**::: ::: :::**

“Wh-where are we?” Sam slurs sleepily from the backseat. “Why’ve we stopped?”

“We’re in the Hellmouth and I’ve got a date with Sarah Michelle Gellar,” Dean deadpans, rummaging around in the glove compartment for a credit card that won’t arouse suspicion. He glances up, catches Sam’s sick, pathetic expression in the rearview mirror. He exhales. “Actually we’re in Who-Knows-Where, Ohio and I’m exhausted. I need sleep, man. This far enough for you?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. It’s good.” A pause. “Thanks.”

**::: ::: :::**

It’s morning. Or, to be more precise, early afternoon if the golden sunshine streaming into the room is any indication. Sam’s not sure what time it is, or what day. His head is fuzzy, as though he’d been drugged or concussed.

As awareness creeps in, he becomes conscious of the uneasiness deep in the pit of his stomach. It feels bloated, hard and distended. And he feels vaguely nauseous, as though he’s drunk too much the night before.

He swallows convulsively, hoping to repress the rising churning. The queasiness intensifies and he’s rushing to the bathroom. He crashes to his knees in front of the toilet, retching as he raises the seat.

He vomits and vomits and vomits until there’s absolutely nothing left inside him and still his stomach won’t stop contracting and trying to expel itself.

At some point he hears Dean knock on the thin plywood and call out his name concernedly, but he’s grateful his brother doesn’t intrude.

Finally, forever later, when he stops dry heaving, he’s weak, shaky, and utterly spent. He drags himself upright and he brushes his teeth and rinses the taste of bile from his mouth. He palms his abdomen. His stomach feels heavy, a warm, uncomfortable weight deep within him.

**::: ::: :::**

When Sam finally comes out of the bathroom, he’s hunched over, legs spread wide, steps slow and shuffling, one hand pressing against the wall for support.

Dean resists the urge to go to him, knowing that Sam needs to retain some semblance of independence. Even as he feigns sleep, continuing his visual assessment, Sam’s other arm shifts, pulling his t-shirt tighter against his front, and its all Dean can do not to react.

Sam’s arm is still curled against his gut in the same protective, bracing, gesture of the night before, but now, now, the muscles have softened, his lower abdomen swollen, slightly protruding, even beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

Sam looks up, catches his gaze. “Something’s wrong.”

**::: ::: :::**

Sam’s asleep again when Dean gets out of the shower, curled up on his side. Sam squirms slightly and his t-shirt, too tight now, rides up, revealing the mound of flesh. His stomach’s expanding by the hour. It’s no longer a fleshy, doughy beer-bulge riding just above his pelvis, but rather it’s huge and grotesque, stretching the width of Sam’s abdomen, spanning from sternum to pelvis.

 _Pregnant_. The word pops in his head just as Sam makes a low sound in his sleep, writhes, the fabric of the sheet rippling.

Quickly dismissing the thought, Dean rummages in Sam’s leather satchel, unearths the bumper-sticker covered Dell laptop.

Powering it up, he lets out a relieved exhale when Sam’s wireless card picks up internet from elsewhere.

He searches quickly and efficiently, bypassing the usual sites for succubus and incubus, but something catches his eye on the bottom of one of the pages — _Mermaids and Selkie Lore_.

Clicking on the link, he scans the page. Suddenly he comes off his seat and snatches his father’s journal, flipping through its pages, almost tearing them out of the binder. There’s a footnote written on a pale yellow post-it that all but confirms his worst suspicions.

 _Fuck_ , he curses, sitting down and scrubbing his hand over his face.

**::: ::: :::**

He reads about pregnancy and is summarily traumatized by the graphic YouTube videos of the yawning, spasming vulva, the obscene way it stretches wider and wider.

He swears celibacy or at least to always wear a condom at the first ooze of blood and fluids from the swollen flesh. And reasserts _Demons I Get, People Are Crazy_ as the camera stays trained at the space between some poor girl’s thighs. The only saving grace is the laptop is on mute.

He never makes it through the first three, quitting just as the opening is breached.

It’s all he needs to know, anyways, he decides, clearing the browser’s cache, erasing its history and calling up _bustyasianbeauties.com_ as a cover, before force-shutting down the frozen computer.

**::: ::: :::**

“Sam…” Dean turns down the volume of the television when Sam stirs, blinks awake, hand absently going to the swollen, gravid mound that is his stomach.

His brother presses his palm against the stretched, translucent skin and winces, letting out a guarded breath. Sam twists to his side, tries to push himself upright, but he’s too shaky, too weak to do much more than lift his shoulders slightly off the mattress.

“Get me up,” Sam interrupts. “I gotta go.”

Dean gets his hands around his brother and gently pulls him upright. Sam moans at the shift in altitude, pressing a fist to his mouth. After a moment, Sam nods and Dean supports him to the bathroom.

Sam stands in front of the toilet, helpless, both hands bracing his stomach as he leans back to counteract the shift in his balance.

“Maybe you should sit…” Dean suggests quietly, tugging down sweatpants and boxers to his brother’s knees, lowering him onto the seat.

Sam grimaces, exhales, as he redistributes his weight.

“Hurts?” Dean hazards at Sam’s grunting attempts to relieve himself, watching his brother’s face redden with the strain.

“Go away. Haven’t you ever had constipation before?” Sam gives him the puppy eyes from beneath dark bangs. “That’s all it is. I just need to rest or something. Eat vegetables.”

Dean nods, turns his back, offering Sam a modicum of privacy.

He doesn’t comment when Sam can’t rise from his seated position, silently heaving him upwards.

“Sam…” Dean exhales, shouldering his sibling’s weight as they make their slow way back to the bed.

Sam’s trembling, panting harshly at the exertion of hobbling even the short distance.

“I think this might have something to do with what happened in Maine.”

Sam rounds on him. “Don’t you fucking mention Maine ever again.”

**::: ::: :::**

For three days, Sam doesn’t — _can’t_ — keep anything down. Not even water. He spends all his time alternating between kneeling before the porcelain god, uncontrollably throwing up for hours on end, and sleeping.

His stomach finally stops expanding on the second day, but it’s grotesque, deformed, huge, and keeps him pinned helplessly to the bed.

And despite sleeping hours, Sam pleads exhaustion, insists the incredible fullness is just a byproduct of their lives.

**::: ::: :::**

On the fifth day, Sam is edgy, anxious. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t read, doesn’t focus on his laptop, and can’t keep his attention on the television for longer than five minutes at one time. He’s preoccupied with time, spends hours curled up on his left side, the only position that grants him any relief. His lower back kills him and nothing in their kit blunts the pain. He keeps his hand pressed to the underside of his belly, supporting the incredible weight, rubbing it absently as he watches the digital clock tick away the minutes.

Late in the evening, he complains of pressure and has Dean drag his ass out of bed and into the bathroom.

“Sam?” Dean pushes in the slightly-ajar bathroom door fifteen minutes later without waiting for an answer and he swallows at the sight before him. Sam’s standing, hunched forward, leaning against the wall, arm braced up against the cold tile, his forehead pressed to forearm. Dean doesn’t ask how Sam managed to leverage himself off the toilet as his eyes travel downwards and he sees Sam’s other arm is curled underneath the tight, hugely-distended mound of his belly, supporting it. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move.

“Sam?” he repeats, slightly louder, keeping his voice low and non-threatening, apprehension and fear rising up in his throat.

This time, Sam swivels his head to the left, not lifting it from his arm, and meets Dean’s gaze. He’s wrecked, sweating profusely, face flushed scarlet, limp, damp hair hanging in glazed, glittering eyes. “De…” He croaks out, unable to even complete the syllable as he suddenly curls on himself again with a low groan, tightening his hold on his stomach. After several long, agonizing seconds, he lets out a sharp, shaky breath as he loosens his grip, legs staggering slightly as the tension leaves him. He pulls himself straighter, spreads his feet wider, repositioning himself against the wall. “Fuck,” he breathes out in a mixture of pain and relief.

Dean doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He stands in the doorway, staring at Sam.

After a long moment he exhales. “Why don’t we get you to bed?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

**::: ::: :::**

“D’you remember that night in Maine…” Dean starts quietly, leaning back against the headboard. On the other bed, Sam tenses and lets out a breath, drawing up his sweatpants-clad knees fractionally.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” Sam glances up from where he’s lying on his side on top of the covers. His hands squeeze the sides of his stomach and he moans. “Please don’t fucking bring it up.”

“Sorry,” Dean dutifully says, not in the least bit apologetic. “Just thought you’d want a free pass on a chick flick moment here…”

“No. It wasn’t real. Whatever you saw, Dean, it didn’t happen.” Sam closes his eyes. “Nothing happened.” He grunts as he squeezes the outside of his stomach again.

“Sam…” Dean presses gently. “I think…” _you’re pregnant_.

“Dean, if you’re going to bring up the P-word again, so help me, I’ll kill you.”

“Okay. I won’t. Just get some rest.”

**::: ::: :::**

The pressure drops lower and builds in crescendo. Hours later, in the early hours of the morning, with an endless gout of fluids that soak through Sam’s sweatpants and sheets, pooling on the mattress in a large straw-colored puddle, the contractions begin.

They’re more uncomfortable than anything else, barely registering as flickering grimaces across Sam’s features when they hit, but they make him even more restless and agitated.

Soon, Sam begins to sweat under the nervous tension and he’s clawing off his clothes, pathetic relief shining in his eyes as Dean untangles and divests him of his t-shirt.

**::: ::: :::**

“God, Sam, quit _pacing_! You’re driving me insane,” Dean growls out, throwing down his print copy of _Busty Asian Beauties_ and slamming his head back against the wall. “It’s been five hours already. Just… go sit the fuck down or something… You’re making me exhausted just looking at you.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Sam nearly wails, arm cradling his obscenely stretched-out stomach. “I can’t stop. I gotta…” He halts in his painfully-slow circuit, braces one arm against the wall, and doubles over with a pained growl that almost ends in a scream and Dean can see him straining.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Dean is immediately at Sam’s side. “Don’t do that. Don’t force it. It’s okay. Just take it easy, alright?”

Sam nods, fresh sweat breaking out across his bare shoulders, shaking under the assault of full-body tremors. “I gotta… feels like there’s something in there.”

 _Well, yeah, that’s kind of the point of being pregnant_ , Dean thinks but he doesn’t verbalize it. “You feel like you gotta—” He stops himself from saying _push_. “—go to the bathroom?” He asks, trying not to startle Sam. _You’re about to give birth to a fully-grown infant, bro. Through your ass_.

Sam blinks at him, confused and disoriented, sweating heavily. “N-no. Why?” He sounds all of eight years old.

“Nothing. It’s okay. You sure you don’t need to crap or anything like that?”

Sam shakes his head. “No. Just feels like something’s in there. Something big.” His hands rove absently over the thin, almost-transparent skin of his mound, webs of dark purple veins visible just beneath the skin, coursing across its sides. “I gotta keep moving. Please,” he adds pitifully.

Dean exhales. “Okay. Okay,” he agrees, seeing Sam’s desperation.

**::: ::: :::**

At first the contractions aren’t bad. They make Sam halt dead in his tracks, double forward, digging fingernails into Dean’s forearm, guttural groans periodically escaping his throat. But they’re manageable.

Later, they become sharper and more acute, and Sam can no longer bite back his cries.

They last hours.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam is standing at the kitchen sink, stark naked, body gleaming in the fluorescent lights as though he’s been rubbed all over with oil, too worn out to pace anymore, but too fidgety to lay down. His legs are spread wide to accommodate his stomach and jacked, nonexistent center of balance, bent over at a ninety-degree angle at his hips, forearms braced against the counter, on either side of the sink, head dangling between his elbows, impossibly heavy stomach dragging down grotesquely. He sways side to side, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, trying to seek relief. From time to time, he moans softly at the pull of gravity on his belly.

Every few minutes, he grunts and his ass rises higher in the air, and Dean can see his rectum gape wide open, obscenely stretched out far beyond what he imagined was possible, the canal slick, swollen, and luridly red.

“Gnnnnnnahhhhhhh,” Sam grunts loudly, sounding like a beached whale, one hand immediately splaying wide on the tight drum of his belly, the other white-knuckling on the edge of the sink. He nearly loses his balance but steadies himself as the contraction wanes, buttocks lowering, the swollen, inflamed skin surrounding his anus spasming and quivering, blood and fluids trickling sluggishly, smearing the insides of his shuddering thighs scarlet.

**::: ::: :::**

Twenty-four hours in, Dean convinces him to lie down and rest. Sam spends most of the second night and day propped by all the pillows, knees drawn up against his hypersensitive swollen mound, trying to ease the intensity in his lower abdomen. His belly button is a painful nub that sends sharp bolts of electricity every time he so much even brushes his hand against it and everything — his stomach, his pelvis, his ass — is a throbbing, pulsating, massive _ache_.

The next twenty-four hours is punctuated by Dean force-feeding him water and Gatorade to replenish the fluids he keeps losing and the increasingly more sporadic and slower circuits around the motel room. The pain increases.

“Walking’s s’posed to help,” is all Dean says.

In the middle of the second night, there’s a definitive shift in the contractions as they come closer and closer together, lasting longer and longer and longer until they’re one on top of the other. Sam’s too exhausted, too spent to even whimper when Dean hauls him off the bed and forces him to squat, feet flat, knees bent, back pressed to the wall, hands clenching Dean’s shoulders. The pressure is excruciating and he’s about to beg Dean to let up

When he feels _it_ — something large and heavy slip into place.

It makes him scream.

He’s back on the soiled comforter, reclining with his knees drawn up, feet pressing against the mattress. Dean forces his legs wider apart and pushes his knees hard against his stomach. He cries out sharply, and for a moment he sees _her_ , but the illusion fades and it’s just his older brother.

“Sam… y’gotta push,” Dean says quietly. “It’s time.”

At the next contraction Sam clenches up all his muscles.

**::: ::: :::**

“Get up and squat,” Dean orders, voice sharp on the third night.

The contractions seem to have altered again… they’re longer, harder, but there seems to be more of a respite in between them, time enough to allow Sam to breathe. But Sam’s still fighting, still tightening his abdominal walls, clenching his ass, holding it all in.

“Can’t…” Sam whimpers, voice weak, harsh, ragged sobs escaping his throat. “I can’t. It hurts too much. And I did… I did until I couldn’t do it anymore. Please.” He throws his head back and screams, low and guttural, stomach heaving, visibly hardening. He presses his knees together, clenching up, refusing to allow anything to pass, refusing to allow the contractions to do what they’re supposed to do. “It’s too much…” he gasps out, hiccupping sobs as the contraction ebbs.

“C’mon. I don’t like this any more than you do and I’m not the one squeezing out the damn sucker. Now, get up. I gotcha,” Dean’s voice is gentle as he reaches out, catching Sam by his upper arms and hauls him into a sitting position.

Sam blanches paper-white, lets out a gasp and Dean stops, apologizes softly, allows him to regroup. After a too-long moment, Sam nods dumbly and Dean is already easing him off the edge of the mattress when…

“Couch.” Sam pants, features tightening with pain.

**::: ::: :::**

He’s clutching the back cushions of the ugly-ass green sofa, crossed arms holding up all of his weight as he crouches. He buries his face in his elbow, knees pressing painfully against his oversensitive mound, squeezing against the contracting flesh, feet planted flat on the ground.

He dips his ass lower, feeling his opening widening, and Dean’s hands pressing against the small of his back, providing support.

“Just let it happen,” he hears Dean murmur. “Do what you need to do.”

He swallows, pants.

And bears down, straining as though he’s trying to pass concrete.

The _thing_ within him slides slowly, relentlessly downwards. He can feel the painful weight of it, the gravitational pull coming to a head at his abused anus.

Suddenly there’s something hard pressing against his opening. It’s rounded and heavy and the incredible, unbearable pressure makes him yell long and loud.

**::: ::: :::**

Dean flinches at the gut-wrenching shriek, the agony behind Sam’s squeal making his hair stand. He presses his palm against Sam’s lower back, where the spine meets the hips, even harder and he sees fresh blood stream from his brother’s ass, streaking the inside of Sam’s legs, staining the towel beneath Sam’s feet. Sam lets out a sob and trails off into incoherent cursing as the swollen flesh surrounding his anus bulges.

Then he sees it — something smooth and curved peeking out of Sam’s rectum. It’s only visible for a brief second before slipping back in.

“Sam,” Dean injects a thread of command into his voice, brooking no argument. “I know it hurts, I know you’re tired, but you gotta push. Next time it hits, push with it, okay?”

“C-can’t,” Sam whimpers into the fabric of the couch. “I can’t do this, Dean. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Shut up, Sam. You’re wasting energy. You want this to be over, then you damn well will push because I can’t do it for you. Deep breath,” Dean coaches roughly as Sam tenses, his brother’s body stiffening, arching, arms pulling up his weight.

Then he feels Sam bear down much harder and more productively than the ordeal’d began, finally, _finally_ , working with the contractions instead of against them.

At the end of the contraction, Sam slumps, his entire frame shuddering, legs jittering helplessly, the couch the only thing keeping him upright. He’s panting, breath rasping loudly and painfully in the silence.

“ _FUCK_ ” Sam shouts, tensing, straining hard. Dark, watery stools drip from his ass. Then his anus stretches wide and the white dome emerges again. “FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK,” Sam bellows when the head doesn’t slip back from the tight, abused ring of muscle.

“Keep pushing,” Dean tells him evenly.

Sam pushes and pushes and pushes, screaming as the head slides inexorably out. It gets stuck at the widest part and stays there, almost undoing him. Five long, agonizing seconds later, it continues to slip.

There’s a moment’s respite before the fresh waves of contractions, and, once the shoulders are free, the body slithers out in a gush of fluids and blood and loose feces. Dean catches the infant and sets it by his side, pressing a clean, folded towel against Sam’s quivering, spasming buttocks, stanching the heavy flow of blood and fluids leaking from his stretched-out sphincter. There’s another contraction, much milder, and then there’s nothing.

“De…” Sam pants, twisting around. He’s wrecked, sallow, sweating, gasping open-mouthed through chapped lips, eyes sunken and bruised with dark purple circles. He blinks once and faints dead away.

**::: ::: :::**

Dean cradles the tiny, squalling, towel-swaddled infant in the bend of his arm. He glances at Sam, flat stomached now, sleeping in the bed nearest to the exit, and exhales a sigh. Sam is still out of it, fourteen hours later — sleeping comfortably, now, body recuperating, healing, with no sign of the restlessness or pain that’d plagued him all week. His ass is still loose, still trickling blood, staining sweatpants and sheets, and Dean has chalked it up to torn muscles. If it keeps up for another day or two, he’ll drag Sam to a hospital and make up some lie about Sam’s sexual predilections. He hopes it won’t come to that point, though.

The girl-baby lets out a sharp, mewling cry, snapping his attention back to it. He’d planned to take it outside, knife it as he’d done to her mother, but he can’t. It isn’t that he loves or even remotely likes it, but it’s just that it’s so human-looking. He offers her his pinky finger and she immediately latches onto it and suckles greedily.

**::: ::: :::**

He’s tempted to implant her with some kind of computer chip. The same way rich people microchip their tiny rodent-dogs. But he knows it’ll never pass muster at the hospital. Not after what he’s about to do.

He knows he’s taking a gamble. Especially this close to a Great Lake. He’d feel better if they were in Nebraska. Or even Kansas. But he’ll take what he can get.

Everything he’s read indicates that she won’t turn out like her mother. Even though she has the webbed hands and feet of a selkie-child, she wasn’t born in a caul, which, as far as he can tell, is the main perquisite aside from being reared by the seal-parent.

But he doesn’t take chances either, taking the sheets and towels, even cutting out a large square of soiled carpet and burning the whole mess in a trash can under cover of darkness. He douses the stripped mattress with a bottle of bleach and hopes it’s enough.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam’s still sleeping when Dean slips out, the girl-baby swaddled up in a scratchy motel towel and stowed into a cover-less shoebox that’s twice as big as her. He sets the box down by the metal dumpster behind the supermarket, over a mile away and slips into a back alley to call 911.

He stays in the shadows, watching, until the ambulance comes and the paramedics take the baby away in a blare of sirens and flashing lights.

**::: ::: :::**

“We need go,” Dean shakes Sam’s shoulder gently. “I know you wanna sleep but we gotta split. You can sleep in the car.”

Sam blinks up drowsily, nods, and pushes himself up slowly. It’s clear from the careful way he handles himself that he’s still sore.

“Want anything?”

Sam shakes his head negatively. “No. I’m okay. Just stiff. Gimme a minute.” He sits on the edge of the mattress, leaning forward, fingers gripping the sheets, breath measured and tight. He’s still pale, sweaty-looking, and obviously exhausted, hunched up in his sweatpants and t-shirt. Laboriously, he reaches out and snags his brown hoodie from the foot of the bed and threads his arms through it, zipping it up with still-shaky hands.

Dean kneels, slips the new sneakers he’s bought over his brother’s feet and laces them up.

Finally, Sam rises with a grimace and hobbles painfully to the door, bent over, cruising along the furniture for support, like an eighty-five-year-old cripple.

Dean helps him limp the five feet to the Impala and stows him into the backseat.

They’re nine miles down the road when:

“What happened to her? She was real, wasn’t she?”

“The Selkie or the baby?” Dean asks. He shrugs. “Both. I ganked the mother and as for the baby, let’s just say one wrong move and we’ll be back.”

There’s silence.

“I’m glad you didn’t kill it.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _ **A/N2:**_ For this fic, I took the basic legend of the selkie and spun it to my own advantages, taking vast liberties. However, the original lore is beautiful and intriguing in its own right. For the background and legends, I used the following websites - especially the orkneyjar one (and, by extension, the below sites were probably the ones where Dean got his intel as well...):  
> 
> 
>   * <http://www.orkneyjar.com/folklore/selkiefolk/index.html>
> 

>   * <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selkie>
> 

>   * <http://www.isidore-of-seville.com/mermaids/2.html#AboutSelkies>
> 



End file.
